


Earning Spurs

by Wind_Ryder



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Gambling, Team Bonding, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:41:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22077130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wind_Ryder/pseuds/Wind_Ryder
Summary: The bet is this: six vs. six at six.Loser gets a four month mission in Siberia.Gabriel signs his newest recruit, Jesse, up to face the Strike Commander. He fully expects to lose, but at the very least he hopes the kid will gain some of Jack's respect in the meanwhile.
Relationships: Jesse McCree & Reaper | Gabriel Reyes
Comments: 5
Kudos: 63





	Earning Spurs

**Author's Note:**

> There's some good natured teasing at Jack throughout this fic. I love the character, but he certainly is teasable.

The thing is, Gabe hadn’t actually thought the kid could do it. It wasn’t a casual bet he’d set up. If anything, he’d only suggested it because damn if that Jack Morrison wasn’t a teacher’s-pet-boy-scout-wannabe. He’d wanted to rub that smug look off Jack’s face, and he’d known he wasn’t the man for the job. “I’m a close range killer, slinger,” he told his newest recruit, hand picked from a prison-cell because that’s what it’s come to really. The kid still had the faded scars of handcuffs wrapped around his wrists and his cheek was still bruised from where Jack clocked him with the butt of his gun for mouthing off. The kid mouthed off a lot. He expected to see a lot more bruised cheeks in the kid’s future. “But you,” he wagged his finger in the kid’s face. “You’ve got that long eye’d-dead-shot sparkle that’s going to ruin Jack’s day.” The kid scowled. 

“What’chu wanntin me to do then, boss?” 

_ Go to grammar school for one,  _ he thought savagely as he prepared himself for the potential embarrassment of this fall out. Whatever. It’d be worth it if the kid could prove he deserved to be on the team. At least there was that. “I want you to outshoot the bastard in a 6 v 6 on the range. You do it, and I might even consider getting you some spurs to complete...whatever it is you’re wearing.” 

The kid’s idea of fashion consisted of retro ‘60s westerns starring John Wayne. He was chaps and buckles, hats and guns. Give him some wheat stalks and he’d probably chomp on it like the faux southern belle he probably wanted everyone to think he was. All the records in the world pointed at the kid having sprung fully formed from Zeus’ head at the age of eighteen, calling himself Jesse McCree and attaching his gun-slinging delights to the banner of underground weapons trades. If Jesse really was a mid-west southern cowboy, Gabriel Reyes would eat his hat. Jesse still wanted a pair of diamond tipped spurs to kick people’s faces in. He’d said as much since the first moment they met. It had been amusing, if nothing else, and solidified the image Jesse made in Gabe’s mind. 

He suspected Jesse was a damn-fine actor. He liked playing games and he liked seeing how far he could push before someone believed him. Lies and bullshit meant squat to Gabe. The kid’s reasoning was his own. So long as the kid did what he was supposed to do, he could dress and talk however he wanted. Gabe could deal with that. 

Jesse mulled over Gabe’s request (order) like his life didn’t depend on it. He rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. The kid was one of those sorry saps who couldn’t grow a beard to save his life. He wanted to, that much was obvious. He stared at himself in the mirror with obsessive teenage dedication every morning, saying:  _ gettin’ there _ as he poked at the same peach fuzz he’d had since he was probably spurted into existence. 

“Ain’t he like the man in charge ‘round here?” Jesse asked suspiciously. Gabe squinted at the brat. He put on his best  _ I know better than you  _ face.

“Until I say otherwise,  _ I’m  _ the only man you need to listen to.”

The kid squinted back. “Sure,” he said, not sounding very sure at all. 

“I only keep you here, because the rumor is that you can shoot. So you’re going to prove it.” 

One shoulder lifted. “Sure.” 

“Now. Just how good are you?” Gabe asked. “Because I bet him a four month mission in Siberia that you could beat him at his own game.” 

“The fuck’d you do that for?” Gabe’s mom liked the word  _ gobsmacked _ , and Jesse fit that bill. He was gobsmacked. Squinting eyes and smug attitude aside. 

It was Gabe’s turn to shrug. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.” Then, because fair was fair: “If you lose, you’re coming with me to Siberia. So don’t fucking lose.” 

Jesse’s face twisted from incredulity to rage to panic back to rage. “Fuck you man.” 

_ Yeah, _ Gabe thought as the kid’s explicatives grew more creative.  _ As cowboy as a witch’s tit. _ He was a talented actor. But an act was all it was. Gabe just hoped he shot better than he played pretend, or else they’ll be freezing together in hell’s armpit until spring. 

***

Jack Morrison was a six foot-whatever blonde super soldier torn from the pages of a Jack Kirby comic book. He was  _ okay,  _ Gabe knew. Okay in the way toast was okay. If you had nothing else, at least there was toast. Gabe offered Commander Toast his loyalty for the most part, but also made no effort to reprimand his definitely-not-a-cowboy teammate when he practiced on the range. “Gonna get that basic bitch,” Jesse muttered as he shot round after round at the paper targets. “Gonna get ‘im.” 

Genetically enhanced eyesight let Gabe track Jesse’s progress. The kid  _ was  _ good. For someone without the reflexes and super juice of either Jack or Gabe, he had impressive skill. Headshot, heartshot, groinshot, femoral artery, throat, head. It might have looked like a damn mess, but the kid knew hot to kill someone at the very least. Gabe entertained himself by telling Jesse where to hit next, and Jesse listened like a champ. Eyes, nose, and a eerie jack-o-lantern smile completed the grotesque design. Gabe made a note to get the kid started on dual pistols at some point. He’d love to see the results.

“You know he can’t win, right?” Ana asked. She slipped in quietly. Jesse hadn’t heard her. He kept muttering to himself  _ (bitch, bitch, basic bitch…) _ . He was a good marksman, but he needed to work on his spatial awareness if he was going to be anything close to effective in the field. Ana was a sneaky little thing: short, squat, and with vision to die for. Gabe heard a rumor that she had 20/5 vision. It seemed like an unnecessary mutation, but she could snipe better than anyone Gabe ever met. He didn’t bet Ana against Jack, because Jack would plead no contest. He  _ knew  _ Ana could out shoot him. He didn’t think Jesse could. 

Which was the point. 

Gabe held up his hands, shrugging as Jesse went through another six bullets. “He’s got talent.”

“Talent isn’t going to get you out of Siberia,” Ana replied. “When’s the match scheduled?”

“Six v six at six.”

“Sounds like your sense of humor.” 

“I’m a simple guy.” 

Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang,  _ (basic bitch), _ bang. 

“Wooeee, would’ya look at that?” Jesse slapped his hand on the level to pull his target closer. It was an impressive bunch. More impressive than the last group. All of Jesse’s bullets were pocketed in a neat circle right in the center of the target’s head. Ana smiled. 

She usually reserved those smiles for her daughter. They were secret and sacred. She had a fondness for children that Gabe never understood.  _ They’re the future,  _ she said in hallowed tones that Gabe scoffed at more often than not. If some child was going to make the future a better place, then color him thankful, but until then he wasn’t holding his breath. She still smiled that mother’s smile, and Jesse flushed when he saw it. “Well done,” she praised. 

“Thank you kindly.” 

“You’re going to lose,” Ana told him. Jesse’s expression froze on his face. Ana was nothing if not brutally honest. “But at least you’ll give him a run for his money.” She twiddled her fingers at them both. 

“You wanna join the bet?” Gabe asked, inspecting his fingernails. Jesse’s dark eyes batted like a child trying to figure out if their parent were fooling them or not. His lips parted. His fingers twitched on his gun. 

“I handle my own missions.” 

“But not your own paperwork.” Ana hesitated.  _ Gotcha!  _ “Four months,” Gabe pitched. Go for eight, and I’ll split it between the slinger and I—four each.” She considered it. Oh how she considered it. Gabe could almost see the clever wheels of her brain turning about in place as she pieced it together. She weighed her options. She weight the chances. She looked over at the paper targets. She reviewed and analyzed the possibilities in comparison to Commander Toast’s latest scores. 

“No deal,” Ana decided in the end. She wagged her finger at them both. “I’m not in a hustling mood.” 

Jesse had the good grace to look offended. “I would never!”

“I don’t know you.” She scoffed. “Good luck either way. I heard that Siberia mission was going to be shit.” 

Gabe didn’t need the history lesson, nor the meteorological reminder. “It’s always shit in the north.” 

“Negative fifty just last week!” she grinned with her teeth. Nothing motherly about it. “Best pack some long johns...just in case!” Then she was out the door and Gabe was left with Jesse, his paper targets, and a lot of ammo. 

“Well?” Gabe asked. “Pin her back up.” 

Jesse scrambled to comply. At least he knew better than to argue. So there was that, he supposed. 

***

Jack entered the shooting range with Reinhardt, Torbjörn, and Winston as witnesses. Ana still hadn’t come down from wherever she’d gotten off to, but Gabe suspected she was watching somehow. She always had her ways. Genji was the real surprise. He slipped onto the range without much fanfare several minutes after Jack. His mask was off, his clothes were bland. He seemed to be there just for the show, though he gave Jesse a two fingered salute in a sign of good luck. “You’re going to need it.” Jesse looked faintly ill at the prospect. 

Jack was not amused. 

“You’re really making the kid go through with this?” Jack asked Gabe snottily. 

“I just want to watch your face when you realize you’re not the best anymore,” Gabe replied. “I got nothing but faith for the kid.” 

“Jesse,” the kid muttered. “It’s Jesse. Or McCree. Ain’t that hard to ‘member.” 

“Kid, shut up and take position,” Gabe pointed. He did just that. “Four months,” Gabe demanded of Jack. “That’s the deal.” If the mission took a day over then he wasn’t going to be held responsible for his actions. He may just abandon the whole thing, and make Jack go do it on his own  _ anyway.  _ Just for spite. 

Jack rolled his eyes. Confidence swelled off him in waves. “Four months,” he sighed. He glanced at his watch. He turned over his shoulder and told his guests he won’t be but a moment. This was the world’s longest delivery of an assignment, and Jack was just going through the motions. Gabe grit his teeth against words meant to scald. He marched toward his recruit and pinched his peach-fuzzed chin. 

“You do this and you get those spurs.” Jesse’s dark eyes narrowed. His lips pressed to a thin line. The skin around his face seemed to be stretched taught as he nodded once. Marching to the start line, Jesse picked up his gun. “Six v six,” he confirmed. 

“Yeah, yeah, six v six,” Jack sighed. He collected a replica to the one Jesse had. He raised it up. Gabe stepped back to watch. Everyone held their breaths. Someone, Winston probably, flicked a switch and the paper targets whirred into life. 

Six shots spat out of Jesse’s gun faster than anyone could blink. Jack hesitated, listening as the shots spilled into the room. Echoes swarmed around them. Gabe resisted the urge to sink his face into his hands.  _ Oh well, Siberia’s nice.  _ He kept his attention forward, and waited for Jack to shoot his load. 

He did at a much slower pace, and when he’d finished he set his gun down. “You pulled it to quick,” Jack told Jesse. “You need to learn control. Patience.” 

“Do I?” Jesse asked. He whirled the revolver about on his finger. Jack’s teeth clicked so loud it echoed thinking  _ Improper gun maintenance,  _ so loud that he might as well have said it. Gabe felt like giving the kid spurs either way. Just for that. 

Winston flicked a switch and pulled the targets in. For a moment, no one spoke. The patterns were tight on both sheets. But.  _ But.  _ Jesse grinned. “Guess that means you’re going to Siberia…. _ sir.”  _

Jesse won. 

The tightly packed bullet marks were so close together you could barely distinguish them from each other. Jack’s was much the same, except his hole was enlarged by a fraction of an inch. Jack’s face kept filtering through ugly metamorphoses. His eyes bugged out. His lips were stretched wide before squeezing in with lemony disdain. 

Gabe caught Jack’s fingers twitching at his sides.  _ Temper temper,  _ Gabe thought as he casually tossed an arm over Jesse’s shoulder, snatching the boy’s hat off as he went, then tugged the kid close. With his other hand he ruffled Jesse’s hair, grinning wider as his protogé groaned, “Awwww maaaan.” 

The citrus pursed lips of their esteemed leader finally released tension. “Well done,” Commander Toast managed. “You’ll make a fine asset to Blackwatch.” 

“Much appreciated,” Jesse drawled.

“If you’ll excuse me….” 

To his credit, Jack didn’t so much as falter as he slid out of the room. His entourage offered their heartfelt congratulations, but Gabe noted their hearts seemed more interested in fleeing then actually praising the boy. Jesse hopped up on a reloading table, unbothered and disinterested. His clever fingers slid bullets back into his cylinder. Flicking his wrist, the cylinder snapped closed as he finished. Gun kissed holster, and Jesse leaned back on his hands. Legs parted like sin, head cocked to the side. 

“So, what kinda spurs you gettin’ for me again, partner?” the kid leered. 

“You like that people don’t know how good you are, don’t you?” 

“Sure.” The grin never faltered. 

“Where’re you from, really?” Curiosity killed the cat. 

“Aww here an’ there, you know how it is.” 

Yeah, Gabe did. And the great town of Here And There was where he traced his roots too. “I’ll take you out in the morning,” Gabe shrugged, plopping the ridiculous cowboy hat low over the kid’s brow. “Find you your spurs.” 

The walking parody nudged up the brim so he could meet Gabe’s eyes. “Much obliged.” 

The thing is, Gabe hadn’t actually thought Jesse would win. He’d thought he’d get sent to Siberia, and he’d have four months of dicking around in the snow before he needed to rejoin civilization. But the allure of having four months of working with John Wayne Jr. could be a far more intriguing compromise. With all the stiff lipped tight-assed members of Overwatch, it was high time for someone fresh to join their ranks. 

Gabe held out his hand. Jesse took it. This could be fun. 


End file.
